Until later that evening. I begged for some clue, some inkling to tip me in the direction of what my gift was. After about half an hour of guesses John replies with the following, "each answer may or may not have been the truth". Sigh . . . so I erased my mind of the stockpile of clues I had saved up. By this point we're lying in bed, the sun had set, and all I can see is the outline of his figure next to me.
"You said you thought it was cool", says John. Eventually I gather that I had seen a similar item online, that it was purchased in New York, that we had never physically been to the store, that the item was purchased from a store in a reality TV show, and that the item was admired by all the other women in the postal office because John "had to take it out of the box to ensure that it wasn't broken" as it was somewhat of "an antique". Also, it wasn't clothing or furniture. And it was related to something I had an interest in and was fragile.
After this point much had become somewhat unclear as I believe the shock of what the gift was revealed as must have clouded my memory. "A skeleton?" I asked in disbelief knowing it was ridiculous - but the path of answers led me to this only one conclusion, as far as my mind could gather. And then he came out with it. It was the foot of a dead ballerina reconstructed in her pointe shoe encased in a glass box. Purchased from an oddity shop called Obscura and totally up John's alley. "You have to be joking John" and "you're pulling my leg" were the two phrases I repeated over and over again in disbelief. He dodged each of my jabbing inquiries with ease. "Who's foot?" and "are you serious"? I comfort myself with the thought that had the room been lit and his countenance visible I would have been able to tell he was fibbing up a storm.
And so it was, John used his tricky ways of half truths and a vague memory of a conversation two months ago to lead me to believe that he had bought me the foot of a dead ballerina for my birthday.
